TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLVI

S T A V E

XLVI

It is as it always should have been, thought Sir Henry, vindicated as the rebel army marched out from the Citadel in surrender. Charlestown fallen. They came at the slow step in spit and polish, drums muffled and fifes playing a dirge – so much better they appear formidable, their General Lincoln would have no rag-tags under his command. And no pushing them off as Billy had done – a complete surrender – over 5,000 and fine rebel troops, many had fought at Freehold, this and 15 regimental Colours, 400 cannon, 6,000 muskets, 376 barrels of black powder, 33,000 cartridges, four frigates (three American, one French) and a polacre of sixteen guns – marvelous. If only "His Excellency" had been among them, wouldn't that have been a catch? But Lincoln would do, a stiff-necked Massachusetts man who helped defeat Burgoyne, and to make the victory sweeter – three signers of the Declaration of Independence. It would've ended the war if in '76. And Clinton did it, the key to the South now in his pocket, and did it without the great 'L.C.' whom he kept out in the swamps to cut off any retreat.

The schemer, Cornwallis, always jockeying, riling up junior officers. Give him his command then; he can have the South, pacify the backcountry. Keep him out of trouble. Whip the Loyalists up . . . I'm to New York and the French. Graves is coming over, and between his fleet and Arbuthnot's, we'll bag the lot. The South'll peel like an orange. The Mid-Atlantics follow. New England will be done. And if L.C. fails, it's all his fault.

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Obedience, in the library, waited for her cue, another singer in the adjoining room, a voice of talent. Mistakes to be sure, but sweet, very sweet, Theodosia Burnham, bright as her ingénue self. The pretty young thing, and Obedience positively old by ten years – the way she demurred in Obedience's presence, her cheeks blushing cherry. Grandame. Idol.

She tried not to listen, white powder sprinkling off her wig's tight curls. A velvet choker to warm her throat along with sips of hot water with lemon and honey. Butterflies – always. Dalrymple had come in to embrace her. She'd pushed him away.

"You know better."

"Nonsense." He kissed her ear.

"Devil." She bapped him with a Chinese fan.

"She's in good voice tonight," he said, listening.

"Isn't she."

He chuckled. "You're jealous."

"I am not."

"She's worked hard these past weeks. She admires you. You're her inspiration."

"As she admires you."

"You're jealous. I would not think it so."

"Leave the girl alone."

"What have I done?"

"It's what you will do."

"You needn't worry."

"For her sake, not mine."

"That's a compliment. And what makes you think she has sights on me?"

"She's a poor actress."

"A tulip," he dismissed.

"Tulip?"

"A Girl of Spring – there and gone. I prefer a rose that lasts the summer."

"Shut up."